


bells

by v3ilfire



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 21:54:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6131358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v3ilfire/pseuds/v3ilfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you have a soulmate, sometimes you can hear their thoughts, but... the Chantry never really tells you that. </p><p>-- </p><p>(soulmate AU sort-of prompt fill someone help me)</p>
            </blockquote>





	bells

**Author's Note:**

> nebulad made me do it. [on tumblr](http://v3ilfire.tumblr.com/post/139949616132/bells)

9:19 Dragon 

No one had ever told Nevira that some people heard voices in their heads, whispers of their other parts carried by the Fade. The first time she’d heard it, it wasn’t even really a coherent idea - just a _really_ strong craving for cheese at dinner (a bad idea, considering her stomach’s poor opinion of it and other dairy). She wrote it off as nothing, but the second time, when the thoughts took up _words_ , she worried.

Thankfully, studious young Nevira knew well enough that a demon trying to possess her would have things to voice that didn’t concern how _boring_ Fereldan history was (for the record, it _wasn’t_ , it was fascinating, thank- _you_ ) or how funny Isolde's ( _whose?)_ accent was. Or, at least she _hoped_ so. 

One quiet night, once she was done reviewing Kugler’s third course on magical theory, she began a deeper search into the issue. Nobody really bothered her about it - most of the other apprentices were used to the curly-haired elf having her ridged nose buried in a stack of books late into the night instead of _sleeping_ like a normal person. Though, this search was taking even longer than her usual obscure questioning - her candle was near burnt out when she finally found the answer. Evidently, what she was hearing was the voice of a... soul mate. A friend. A partner. Another half.

Hastily, she copied down the page on a scrap of parchment, and tucked it into the pocket of her robe.

* * *

_9:20 Dragon_

Alistair wanted to cry.

He stared at nothing, fists clenched, tears leaking out his eyes; what else could he do? He was _betrayed_. His room at the monastery wasn’t even his, but a drafty box he had to share with some other boys who looked at him with nothing less than enthusiastic resentment.

All because of _Isolde._

He honestly couldn’t even blame her all that much - not when Arl Eamon was the one who agreed to banish him to the life of a Templar. Just thinking of the old man made his throat tighten. And he'd been so  _stupid_ and smashed his mother's necklace. It was just a trinket, but there was something so... final about it. Without it he felt so,  _so_ lonely, and his throat was starting to  _burn_ and -- 

\-- and then, clear as a bell, he’d heard the steady whisper of a voice: _inhale, hold, push._

Over and over, the mantra coursed through his head in a voice that wasn’t his own; quiet, but sure in its resolve. The poor boy was hard pressed to banish what _might_ be the only other friendly presence in his life, and so, he decided to join in. Inhale, hold, push (which, he’d hoped just meant exhale, but who was he to question?). Again, and again, until his shuddering breaths turned to steady ones, and he resolved that perhaps some benign voices in his head were better kept secret.

( _If_ he was lucky, and he hadn't been yet, then _maybe_ this was his... ‘soul mate.’ According to Arl Eamon, that had also been the connection between his mother and father, dampened by status and propriety and  _duty_. There was a part of him, later relegated to youthful naivete, that believed that this could be different.) 

* * *

_9:28 Dragon_

Lyrium potions left a steely taste in Nevira’s mouth. Requisitioning them was nearly impossible for apprentices, but some of the Senior Enchanters seemed interested enough in the studious seventeen-year-old to keep her working longer than her classmates. Longer work meant, of course, that mana depleted much faster, and thus meant that she could begin receiving small allotments of the blue liquid. She wasn't necessarily looking  _forward_ to the brew, but she couldn't help but enjoy how quickly the magic rushed back into her fingertips.

Her accelerated track _did_ come with some level of anxiety. She was being watched twice as often with twice as much scrutiny, and was working twice as hard. Even Jowan, the only one who’d even _tried_ to befriend her despite her eager bookishness, was growing a little concerned over her exertion. Even _Cullen_ , who she could comfortably call friendly, seemed a little tense in her presence. Not that she couldn’t handle the added workload - Nevira’s enthusiasm for all things scholarly often kept her studying late into the night, but even anyone could see that she was beginning to lose her spark.

For one, Nev started sighing far more often, and her limbs grew weary. They kept promising her a Harrowing, but putting someone as young as she through such a test was unheard of - it was almost as unpleasant as overworking herself without a goal. One night, too close to spent, she was well on the verge of tears because she’d been awake for _three days_ and the Tome of Spirit Personnages just wasn’t making _sense_ and --

\-- she’d never noticed it before, but the Templars waddled a bit in their armor. _Like metal ducks,_ she thought, in a voice almost familiar enough to be her own, and for the first time in weeks, she laughed.

* * *

_9:30 Dragon_

As a Grey Warden, it was Alistair’s _duty_ not to get too attached to the recruits, but he couldn’t help but be curious about the elven circle mage with the tired eyes. It wasn’t often that the Wardens recruited women, let alone mages, let alone _cute_ lady mages - and this one came with high enough praise from Duncan for him to hope that -- well. At the very least, he was glad she did not squirm about going into the Wilds, or even flinch at the first sighting of Darkspawn as he once did. No, she stood poised and ready to strike them down with practiced casting while the men tried their best to gracelessly poke them to death with sharp chunks of metal. Daveth and Ser Jory were certainly skilled, sure, but watching a fully-trained Circle mage in action _outside_ the Circle? Definitely a far better show. He had half a mind to get a snack. 

And Alistair could appraise her technique well enough; the bell girl in his head had been more than informative about such things. Years of the steady whisper of books on magic in his ear, of enthusiastically being fed connections between discoveries of mages he’d never even _heard of,_ and suddenly he found himself being able to spot the influences of Magus Gorvish in her casting and Orlesian techniques of mana conservation. He wagered this recruit was at least _almost_ as learned as his bell girl. She even sounded a little like her.

There was just one Hurlock left, struggling to stand, when he caught it. Nevira pulled herself straight, poised her staff and - just like the bell had whispered to him year after year after year - _inhale, hold, and push._

Push, he realized in that moment, implied magic. Push the _spell_. Kugler’s theorem. Suddenly, he found himself far more invested in her Joining than he’d been trained for.

\---

Nevira was the only recruit left by the end of that night. The Joining put a sour feeling in her stomach, but not nearly as bad as what she knew the pieces of cheese on her plate would do if she were to eat them. Especially in the aftermath of Darkspawn blood.  _Especially_ after Darkspawn blood  _and_ a day of chugging lyrium and elfroot potions one after the other. She was surprised she hadn't been sick yet. 

Alistair came to sit next to her, surprisingly quiet. He’d been far more understanding than she anticipated, considering his status, and she appreciated his humor. It was ... strangely timed, in her opinion, but she was used to such things.   
“I’m … glad you made it,” he said, clearing his throat. Nevira smiled at him, but her tired eyes betrayed her. She’d seen far more in the last few weeks than she cared to think about, and there would be much more blood to come.  
“It is an honor to join the ranks of the Grey Wardens,” she answered, joyless. The only scrap of comfort she had to herself was the bizarre and, as of recent, increasingly constant craving for cheese. Still, it was better if she didn’t partake. “Do you… want this?” she said, without making eye contact.  
“What?” Nevira nudged the plate towards him. Alistair eyed the slices of cheese she’d picked off the platter Duncan had put together for her.  
“I can’t have cheese,” she said plainly. “I’d hate to waste it.” Alistair hesitated, but once she didn’t change her mind, took a slice to his mouth.

Nevira’s relief hit her as immediately as she realized it wasn’t her own.


End file.
